Poison & Wine
by celestialscribe
Summary: Remus returns from a mission and Sirius is anything but kind. He distrusts him, even going so far as to mistake him for the turncoat. Remus credits this to the fact that he's a werewolf. Inspired by the song by The Civil Wars.


Remus had never been as practised with healing spells as the other Marauders, Peter included. Throughout his short life, he'd inflicted upon himself a myriad of wounds, a colourful array of bruises or deep gashes where the boy had sought to escape from the body that pained him so. The Wolfsbane potion offered little more than a _hope_ of sanity once the full moon rose in the night's sky, beckoning all sorry souls into its merciless grasp. And as that cruel orb finally retreated beyond the horizon and the sun graced the world with its morning light, Remus was usually too weak to lift a wand let alone perform magic.

Back at Hogwarts, it was usually Sirius who saw to the actual healing, at least as much as he _could _to dull the pain without causing Madam Pomfrey to suspect the intervention of another. The memory left the first bitter taste of betrayal on Remus' tongue. Things had been different back then; at Hogwarts, _Sirius_ had been different. For a start, he might have offered his friend some help when he needed it rather than standing over him with a stone-cold expression of defiance, surveying his struggle without even lifting a finger.

Slamming their copy of _The Healer's Helpmate_ onto the cluttered surface of the kitchen table, Remus shot Sirius a look of anger and utter resentment, the eye that _wasn't_ swollen and bruised conveying just how weary he had become over the past few months. But it wasn't the war that Remus was tiring of. As much as it had taken its toll on him, it was _this_ that Remus couldn't bear; Sirius' behaviour, having the man he loved treat him as if he was nothing but a filthy traitor.

_Treating me like that which I am; a werewolf._

Remus suspected that was precisely what _this _had always been about, ever since he'd first caught a glimpse of suspicion in Sirius' watchful gaze. Sirius didn't _trust_ him. In all fairness, the Black had lost faith in many whose loyalty he had not questioned _once_ before the war. But none more so than Remus Lupin.

It didn't matter that Remus loved him. It didn't matter that Remus _told_ him that he loved him each and every day, and despite all the suspicion that Sirius had regarded him with he'd _always _meant it. It only mattered what he _didn't_ say. Remus never once breathed a word of his missions to Sirius, and the man despised him for it. Sirius wanted to know where Remus had been, whom he'd encountered, and just what he drew from each mission. It wasn't his place, and yet Remus forgave him anyway. What he couldn't forgive was the reason _why _Sirius acted as he did.

_He wants to know if I've turned._

When it boiled down to it, Remus was a werewolf and little else. To Sirius, that simple truth seemed to override years of promises, years of honest devotion and tender affection. When Remus was initially struck with this realisation, his blood had run cold, shock at just what this meant for _them_ chilling him to the core. It meant that no matter what words left Sirius' lips in the dark of night, words that he'd spoken each night ever since he first snuck into Remus' four-poster bed atop Gryffindor tower after hours to replace confused kisses with voiced affection, there was only ever so much truth to them.

Sirius couldn't love him. He couldn't _need_ him. Not if he was so willing to turn against him at the slightest sign of trouble. The war was supposed to bring those who loved each other closer together, but it had only served to push him and Sirius further apart than Remus had ever thought possible.

Sirius' mouth was poison. And yet it was wine. Sirius possessed the power to break his heart as easily as he'd mended it time and time again. Remus hated him for it; he loathed and loved him for each reassuring whisper under the veil of darkness, the warmth of his breath at his ear once another day had passed leaving them with nothing but an embrace of honest yearning, arms searching for a comfort that had only ever been found in the other.

And yet one thing remained constant. Remus refused to give up on Sirius. He credited the war for the change that he saw in the man he'd come to depend on more than he'd ever dared depend on _anyone_; the man he'd mistakenly thought needed him almost equally. Remus refused to accept defeat. He credited fear for Sirius' actions. _Fear makes people do terrible things_. Apparently seeing betrayal in the man you claimed to love, betrayal which had never once crossed Remus' mind, was one of them.

_You only know what I want you to. _Remus clung to this belief, reminding himself of it in moments such as this. Sirius couldn't possibly fathom just what Remus got up to during his missions; he didn't know just how brutal and ruthless others of Remus' kind were, thus just how much self-loathing his particular werewolf possessed. It simmered beneath the surface where it was tempered by little more than Remus' desire to put up a good front. Sirius couldn't hurt him; Sirius _wouldn't_. But Sirius already was, each and every day, in his refusal to face his fear head on. Now, as the war seeped through the cracks in the walls of their London flat, he was little more than fear's captive.

Remus had initially thought it was better this way, better if Sirius was spared the ugly details of each mission. It soon became apparent just how mistaken he'd been however he couldn't bring himself to speak of it regardless. It should have been enough that he came back upon the completion of each mission. He came back for his friends, for the Order, but most especially for Sirius. It was this that Remus strove to impress upon him as opposed to just how close he came to their loathed enemy. Remus was as much a member of the Order as Sirius, but due to the nature of his missions he often had to bear the mask of another, namely someone who actually _enjoyed _being a werewolf, someone who held a grudge against those who treated him differently because of his condition. Those who treated him much like Sirius was _now_.

What Remus had failed to figure into the equation was that in the absence of information Sirius had come up with answers of his own, filling in the gaps with mere fiction. Sirius simply didn't get it. Like a niffler digging for Leprechaun gold, he searched for answers that were not there. For Sirius, it wasn't enough that Remus returned, often coated in a new array of cuts and scrapes. It wasn't enough for Remus to claim that he was glad to finally be back, back where Sirius was within arms' reach. It wasn't even enough to feel familiar lips pressed against his, a reunion tainted with doubt and reluctance. Sirius had grown up knowing everything there was to know about Remus. In the loss of this particular comfort, it was only instinct that he come to distrust the werewolf whom had never once denied him an explanation in the past. Remus knew full well not to leave Sirius to his own thoughts; such actions only served to put Sirius on edge. But _that_, Remus had seemingly forgotten.

As Remus flicked through the crumpled pages of the book, Sirius kept a deliberate distance. There had once been a time when _The Healer's Helpmate _had simply sat on the shelf to gather dust with the passing of time. However as their missions grew ever more dangerous, ever more risky until they considered themselves _lucky _to return with little more than a black eye, Sirius witnessed it being lifted from the shelf all too often. And yet it was unnecessary. Had Remus only _asked_, Sirius could have mended him as soon as he'd crossed the threshold and entered their flat. But Remus was too proud. Either that or he really _was_ the traitor Sirius had taken him for.

The truth of the matter was that Remus was right. Remus was _always _right. Sirius was fucking terrified. The second he first heard the click of the door followed by the weary footsteps of the werewolf, he'd jumped up from where he sat with the intention of kissing the man who'd so mercifully freed him from his failed attempt at distracting himself. The only thing keeping him from embracing Remus as if longing _wasn't _adulterated with distrust… was fear. Fear, because his Moony returned with a dangerous storm of plums and indigos dashed across one side of his face. It was evident that his mission had taken a great deal out of him; that each movement cost him, that he was _struggling_. And yet he appeared more defiant than ever, leaving Sirius with nothing but a painful feeling of redundancy.

It was stupid that Sirius feared for his life. Remus was a werewolf, for Merlin's sake. He'd been dealt far worse than a few blows that blemished the flesh. Then Sirius reminded himself that those who had bestowed such a gift of bruises upon him, monsters by comparison, were _also _werewolves. He hated them for it. Anger and disgust boiled within him, searing his veins until Sirius was certain he was mere moments away from doing something even more stupid and reckless than usual.

And then it hit him; the realisation that losing Remus would leave him a broken man, more so than when his mother had drove him from Grimmauld Place at the age of sixteen. He was left with an instinctual want to rectify the matter. Everything rested in the hands of one man, one man who happened to be a _werewolf_. It was a gamble. Remus Lupin was his undoing. Sirius _couldn't_ lose Remus.

And yet he was already losing him.

_I know everything you don't want me to_. Sirius might not know what Remus got up to during his missions, but he knew enough. The injuries that he returned with were enough indication that it had been dangerous. Even more telling was the fact that Remus didn't speak of it. Not only that, but he felt he _couldn't_.

Perhaps Sirius was just being overly suspicious, perhaps the war had succeeded in driving him mad, but it was almost as if Remus _enjoyed_ watching him fish for answers. He encouraged it by failing to provide them. And yet, Remus wasn't lost to him yet. It was almost as if he wanted Sirius to say it; to call him the turncoat. That was the thing about Remus Lupin; never did he possess the balls to confront him _first_.

When Sirius looked into the werewolves eyes, he no longer saw the warmth that counteracted the chill of the war. He only saw a mere glimmer of the Moony he had grown up with, the Moony who _needed_ him. Sirius knew Remus wasn't to be trusted. The chink in their bond, broken by a mere flicker of doubt, had caused distance between them that both men were too proud, too _stubborn_ to cross.

_You think your dreams are the same as mine. _Sirius dreamed of Remus. Always and forever, _only Remus_. Of course James, Lily, and Pete figured somewhere in there too. But in the end of the day, it all came back to the fucking werewolf who wouldn't even tell him where he'd been for the past few days, let alone how he'd come to meet such harm. It was a war. It was a miracle he hadn't been killed. But that wasn't enough.

Remus hadn't dreamt of _this_. He dreamed of a cure, something to ease the pain of being a werewolf; not the transformations but everything else that it entailed. He dreamed of measuring up to the same as the next wizard, because that was the one dream that could never be fulfilled. _Unless he joined them_. There, at least, he was the equal he'd always wanted to be.

All that had brought Remus back to Sirius that very night was the pretence he'd been living under for months; denial of what he was and the simple fact that he was still just a step or two from joining _them_ altogether. That, or Remus hadn't been as quick to realise the truth of the matter as he, failing to recognise what was only inevitable. Remus would leave him, just as everyone whom Sirius had _ever_ depended on had eventually departed, kicking him out, slamming the door in his face and scorching his name from the tapestry bearing the family tree. Their days were numbered, just as they had always been.

Sirius watched as Remus' hand flattened the pages of the book, finally having located the appropriate spell. Refusing to meet Sirius' gaze, concerned that it might provoke him into uttering words that he'd only regret in time to come, Remus scooped the book up in one hand turning so that Sirius' resentful gaze was met with nothing but his back.

It wasn't easy. His free hand fumbled for his wand, whilst a wince almost escaped his lips at the movement. Had Sirius cared, he might have noticed that Remussuffered various injuries from head to toe. Each time he met with his kind, he was tested. He had to endure it or he'd lose his footing within the group entirely, and then he'd have _nothing_ to report to the Order. Then he'd go back to being unemployed, useless, void of any purpose in the war.

Sirius didn't get it. Remus _needed_ this. He needed it almost more than he needed the man himself. Yet it came at a price. It was beginning to dawn on him that the price was far greater than he had initially perceived. And it hurt. By Merlin, did it hurt.

As his eyes scanned the page, he wished Sirius would hold him as he turned his back. That thought alone was enough to leave him defeated, his body threatening to give in altogether, not out of physical weakness but because for the past few years Sirius had been as important, as significant, as _crucial_ to his existence as the air in his lungs or the steady beats of his heart.

Only Sirius didn't. Not at first, at least. Only when Remus had dropped the book on the counter that stood before him, pressing hands upon its surface so as to steady himself against the wave of regret that washed over him, did the man so much as take a step towards him.

"Fucking hell, Remus," he breathed, only a hint of surrender in his voice. But it was enough. It was enough to indicate that Sirius wasn't only vindictive. There was an edge of sorrow somewhere in his cold depths, a part of him that knew he was wrong, knew that he'd only come to regret this with time; an edge of apology amidst accusation.

Drawing his wand from his pocket, Sirius approached the werewolf with only a few quick strides. Brushing the hair from about Remus' face, it was clear that the sight of him in such a state pained Sirius. Yet Remus wouldn't so much as look at him, eyes flickering from the book that lay abandoned on the kitchen counter, the floorboards beneath his feet or the grey patch where wall met ceiling where many a year ago there had been a leak, still unrepaired despite the fact that they could have fixed it with little more than a simple spell.

Sirius didn't speak. He had nothing but questions, questions which Remus would never answer. They burned in his mind leaving a raw impression that only caused him to feel further resentment towards the werewolf. But he couldn't bear to look upon him another moment with all the bruises which hindered his complexion. It was as if each were a reminder of that which he'd never know, that which Remus refused to cast light on.

Reminders of the fact that Remus was slipping from his grasp.

"Is there a reason why you didn't just ask me to heal you in the first place?" Sirius uttered, more to distract himself from the fact that he was a mere breath away from Remus, eyes fixed on the side of his face that was bloodied and bruised.

Holding the tip of his wand to the tender skin, Remus winced, but other than that his determination to maintain his strong front didn't waver. Merely releasing a sigh, Remus allowed his one good eye to finally rest on Sirius.

"I can't... I can't always depend on you to fix me up." _Because even when you're there, you're not. _

For an agonising moment these words sat between them, hovering in the empty space that kept them at a distance. Hurt flickered across Sirius' features, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Sit down, will you?" Sirius ordered, urging Remus towards one of the chairs at the table in an effort to distract from the concern which was so painfully evident in his voice. He then proceeded to move hands over his face, studying the wounds as if to determine the appropriate spell.

Pressing wand to flesh once more, the tenderness with which he did it was unnerving. Sure, Sirius' hands could heal, but they bruised just as easily. Only the wounds he bestowed upon the werewolf were lasting. They weren't the kind that left their mark upon flesh. Instead, they were forever branded on his heart, scars of an entirely different kind.

And yet despite it, despite _all_ of it, Remus could feel himself deflating with every second that Sirius' touch lingered. Remus needed it, just as he needed Sirius. A shaky breath escaped his lungs, and he felt his shoulders drop as he surrendered to the man entirely. Sirius must have recognised this, for he planted a firm kiss atop his head before moving his wand once more over the bruises in small rotations, unbuttoning his shirt to survey the rest of the damage.

"You'll need a potion for the rest," Sirius said regretfully. He had only ever been able to do so much for the werewolf. It drove him to the brink of insanity, but he had only ever been able to ease his pain to a certain degree. If he could take it all away, he'd do it in an instant, whatever the cost. "Go lie down. I think we've got a bottle or two in the cupboard."

Finally, their eyes locked. Remus had lifted his gaze, forcing himself to look upon the very man who had once made him feel like so much more than what he truthfully was. There had been a time when it was _easy_ to forget that he was a werewolf, that he was an _aberration_. Sirius had made it so. But that time had passed.

Grabbing hold of the front of Sirius' shirt as if seizing that which he'd so regretfully lost, that which had become so _dear_ to him, Remus reeled him in. Sirius' grey orbs were almost wary as they studied the face of the werewolf, features bearing that same tired expression which he'd had upon entering their flat. He knew what that meant. Remus wasn't tired of the war, only tired of _him_. And he had every reason to be. Sirius was tired of it too, tired of _himself_ for being too stubborn to trust the man whom had once been one of his closest friends; too proud to trust the Marauder.

Being within such proximity of the other man pained Sirius, but he allowed himself to be pulled close regardless, only cursing under his breath in protest. He let his hand rest atop Remus' head, tender fingertips stroking the soft tresses. Then Remus gave another tug and Sirius lost any shred of resistance, his resolve crumbling altogether only to be replaced with a yearning to return to days when everything had made sense. When it was just Padfoot and Moony, and not a fleeting second was given to doubt or distrust. And yet as lips moulded against lips, as Remus shifted in the chair so as to allow Sirius to straddle him, Sirius realised that however prominent his suspicion of the other man had become, there was one thing that retained permanence.

_I don't have a choice, but I still choose you. _

Moony. _His_ Moony. Each day, Sirius felt Remus take one step further from him, but he'd be damned if he let it happen. It was the only thing keeping him there, the only thought that allowed him to sleep by the side of the suspected turncoat each and every night; the one and only thought that allowed Sirius to continue loving the werewolf despite his better judgement.

Encasing Sirius in his arms, Remus only wished the simple touch of lips was enough to dispel suspicion altogether. It might keep it at bay for the remainder of the night, but never could he drive away what was only the truth. Remus was a werewolf. Sirius distrusted him, _because_ he was a werewolf. And yet Remus forgave him. He forgave Sirius in an instant, resting a hand against his back so as to encourage him, tempt him even, to melt against his chest just as he did in former days.

_I don't love you, but I always will. _

Remus couldn't fathom what it might take for him to give up on Sirius, or for Sirius to give up on _him_. He could feel the steady drum of Sirius' heart against his chest, his warm breath against his lips and the light pressure as their foreheads touched. Yet his only comfort in that moment was that the war would end, and when it did, it was these finer details that would stand out. All this talk of betrayal, suspicion and distrust; none of it would matter. The war would end, and when it did, he'd have his Padfoot back.

Padfoot and Moony. Life would be as it was. Better. Whole.


End file.
